This is the begining of the second chapter of a novel that takes place in Philadelphia in the spring of 1825. I've read (and rewritten) this thing a half dozen times so now I've completely lost perspective. The story is about Charles, whose wife, Martha, died giving birth to Joseph several years earlier (mentioned in the first chapter).
Is it too wordy? Too slow? Melodramatic? Boring? Interesting? All comments appreciated! Thanks so much!!
For many months after he buried Martha and Joseph, Charles could not stay away from the churchyard even though standing by their tomb brought no peace, no healing insights nor even numbness. But over the years, the craving to be close to them faded and he visited only occasionally. They seemed more ethereal now, unchained from their graves and moldy skeletons, watching over him in some gentle way.
The iron gate into the churchyard from State Street banged shut behind him and a half dozen mourners standing near an open grave looked up, scowling. Charles' head bowed and he waited by the gate until their faces turned back to the gaping hole at their feet. He had not been in the churchyard since autumn and had forgotten how close this gate sat to State Street with its irksome noises of vulgar men and clanking wagons. It smelled badly too, reeking of curbside garbage, horse urine and someone's overflowing privy. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his face. But the delicate rosewater that his slave, Titus sprinkled over the handkerchief that morning was just too weak to conquor the stink and he wanted to retch.
The cluster of mourners finally drifted from the open grave: a toothless old man hobbling on two canes, two youths with red, swollen eyes, some sniffling women and a little boy whose shoulders jerked with sobs. The parson led them toward the side gate leading back to the church and Charles stood with his hands clasped before him until they passed. He used to watch such processions carefully to see if any widowers were among the bereaved and reserve his deepest sympathy for them but in recent years, his supply of such feelings dwindled and this morning, he was just impatient for them to leave.
Hinges on the side gate whined, the somber little parade passed into the brick alley. When they finally entered the church, Charles hurried across the graves to the yard's far corner where Joseph and Martha slept. Lichen had grown over the intricate carving of an hourglass on their slate headstone like splotches of flaking pale green paint.
"I've not much time this morning, Martha," he whispered and scraped the lichen with his house key. "Workmen will be along soon to fill in the grave of your new neighbor and I've much work to do before I leave for New York this afternoon. It seems I always have work in New York, doesn't it?" He slipped the key into his pocket and ran his hand along the slate, warm from the morning sun. It always cleared his mind and calmed a deep turbulence to talk to Martha as if she were standing beside him, listening with her pretty head cocked and who was to say that she was not?
"In a few months, I'll be retired Martha! If all goes well, I'll be in Charleston by December with enough money to maintain that farm, just as I promised. And I've kept my promise to free Titus - and would you believe it? He wants to stay with me as my free servant! He says he likes my flute playing." He patted the slate and chuckled. Martha would have laughed about the flute and if Joseph had lived, maybe he would have learned the violin and there could be duets. "Once I'm settled there, I'll send for you and Joseph. I'll not leave you to rot here alone." He squinted over the rows of gray headstones toward the street bustling with life and indifference.
Men's rough voices and a hacking cough came from the front of the yard and the aura of tenderness around him vanished. He rubbed his hand over the hard slate, suddenly feeling its inertness then stepped back onto the gravel path.
Thanks so much for reading!
CRITIQUE
Alrighty, time for something different...flash critique! I'll critique as I read.
The bodies are in either a tomb or a grave, but not both. From the rest of the piece, I’d say they’re in graves, not a tomb. Are you trying to make this guy sound mentally unhinged? He craved closeness to corpses? It reads like he’s visited their open graves for years and saw their spirits chained to their graves and decaying bodies, but now they’re finally unchained. Is this guy nuts? People do not crave impossibilities, unless they're crazy. Cravings disappear quickly when there’s no chance of satisfaction. Tell how he feels rather than how he doesn’t feel.
When you say “It smelled badly…”, do you mean the churchyard, the gate, or State Street? Whichever it is, it didn’t “smell badly”; it stank. Either no comma after “slave” or a comma after “Titus. I like no comma after “slave”. He didn’t hold the handkerchief over his face, but his nose, right? “Conquer” not “conquor”. Comma after “stink”. I think you could combine the last two sentences: “He held his handkerchief over his nose, but the delicate rosewater that his slave Titus sprinkled over it that morning was too weak to conquer the stink, and he wanted to retch.”
You stated “half a dozen” mourners, but only five file past the man. Comma after the first “them”.
Comma after “neighbor” and “cocked”.
He’ll “send” for them? OK, little creepy there again. He can’t send them anything, and even if he could, they couldn’t do anything about it. Weird dichotomy you got going with this guy. He feels such tenderness about them, but uses words like “moldy skeletons” and “rot” on them. Comma after “violin”. Comma after “inertness”.
Overall, not bad.